My Story so Far

My Story so Far

By A Stick

I don't know how long I had been lying on the grey tarmac of the factory car park. I had fallen quite heavily but I didn't think that anything was broken; I just couldn't move. The shadows were already lengthening when she came out to her car and noticed me. She quickly looked around to to see if anyone was watching and then unceremoniously scooped me up with her shopping and bundled me into the car boot. 'Out of the cupboard and into the loft', as we sticks say. Yes, that's right, I'm a stick, a walking stick. “That's ridiculous” I hear you say, “sticks can't walk”. Well, how about a man eating chicken? You can see one of those every day at KFC. The kids fall for that one every time. After that they never have the nerve to question whether a stick can be self-aware.

When we reached our destination I was hung up behind the front door, and my heart sank. My finder turned out to have more walking sticks than you could, well, shake a stick at. What was even worse was that they were upmarket Lekis. I have to admit, that I don't come from a good family and if I told you my name, it would mean nothing to you.

Her husband on the other hand was definitely one stick short of a load. He even told Her that he “wasn't really a stick person”. Good God, doesn't he have a mirror? I don't know how I kept a straight face.

Things did not start out too well. She nagged Him to take me out for a walk. Initially he also took one of her snooty sticks but the three of us never really got on. Then he took me out on my own for a bit; he would play with me for a while but I could tell that his heart was never really in it. I would usually come home, clinging on for dear life to the back of his rucksack. She continued to take the Lekis for walks but increasingly I found myself left hanging around behind the front door.

Then one day He appeared carrying a much bigger rucksack than usual and looked at me with renewed interest. And my life changed. Since then I have come to know the Malvern Hills very well, not to mention Snowdonia and the Lake District. Once he even said that I was what his right arm was for – nowadays. He gave me a sly look as though there was a joke hidden in there somewhere, but if there was, I didn't get it.

He has even started taking me on long haul trips. At first the very thought of this made me go weak at my telescopic joint and I desperately wished that I could screw myself together. In the event, I found the velvety blackness of the hold and the distant mutter of the engines, strangely comforting. I think that perhaps it reminded me of my shipping container. This is such a sticky concept that it would be hopeless to try explaining it to Him. I mean, where would I start?

Our first long trip together was to Nepal, where we reached Annapurna base camp. I was up for a summit bid but He is getting on a bit now. Since then we have tramped over a large part of New Zealand. We have both had enough of walking up volcanoes though; that rough pumice wore out his boots and completely took the edges off my ferrule. It is no longer the fashion for sticks to wear badges but I know where every dent and scratch on my paint has came from.

I wouldn't say that he is a considerate keeper. He uses me to point at things, which is rude, and sometimes pokes me into things that he would prefer not to touch. I know that I am wanted though, if not actually loved.

And that's my story so far.

SP by author. Ballpoint on [unidentified]